


Fate Shall Forsake You

by Lebellerose



Category: Harry Potter RPF, The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Adam needs a hug, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Adam, Badass blake, Blood and Violence, Discrimination, Fantastic Racism, Getting to Know Each Other, Magic-Users, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Post-War, Protective Blake, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Strangers to Lovers, War, intersex Adam, tyranny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 04:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10780056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lebellerose/pseuds/Lebellerose
Summary: Adam apparently has the life everyone wants, joyfully spending his days as a pop star. But unknown to the average human they possess magic powers and aren't even male, not exclusively at the very least. They've also been alive far far longer than a first glance would suggest.And while the regular humans are going through relatively peaceful times, the magic community is still amidst a 100 years war championed by the biggest dictator it has ever had the displeasure of witnessing. It'll be a hard fight to try and bring the tyrant down.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, here I have for y'all the product of my procratisnating on "A place to belong". I've been mulling over this concept for a while and at last said fuck it, I'll write it. It is kind of a self indulgent project and will again feature a gaggle of characters and people I like, but I don't care :p.  
> Be warned the updates for this will most likely be irregular, to put it midly.  
> Anyways, enjoy the prologue♡.

The figure was watching outside the window, cloaked in the last shadows before dawn. A light drizzle had been falling all night, the moon half covered by clouds iluminated drops of water like jewels on the leaves and grass. Now and then, a nightingale would emit soft trills, very much aware of whose residence it sang by. The master of the house had an awful short temper. Many a careless creature had had to pay for ignoring this fact. Nothing remained of them. Not even a tiny sign that once upon a time they indeed had been alive. But it hadn't been a clean erasure, the figure remembered with a bitter grin. It never was if "he" could help it. Pain always needed to be inflicted on those who directly or indirectly opposed that man. A system works because it is enforced.

The figure sighed, memories of the last century heavy on its mind. A tear threatened to scape its eye, and then darkness, dear old friend, was there, cradling it, soothing part of a hurt that only gained more and more mileages as the years passed. After the bout of emotion had gone away, the figure felt pathetic. It knew how much others were suffering at the same moment. Knew war far better than perhaps anyone else in the world. No matter, now wasn't the time for self pity. 

As dawn approached the figure grew restless. Morning would bring yet another day of misery and isolation. Would there ever be a way out? The rebels had been dead quiet for decades, most thought them completely erradicated. Although, if the whispers the figure catched sporadically were to be believed, the rebels hadn't breathed their final breath yet. Talking opposition, Great Britain was still standing, but significantly weaker than it once had been. Maybe the war was nearing its end, even if it was a horrible one. 

Helplessness builded inside the figure, and it turned to look at the man carelessly sleeping on the bed. It wondered, as it was increasingly prone to these days, how did things turn out this way. A child became a tyrant. A mass murderer. Wonder and innocence squashed in favor of ruthlessness and depravity. The figure shook its head, wrapped itself harder around the darkness. It glanced back through the window, at the retreating moon. Deep within the figure's soul hatred bubled aching to be released but tightly constricted by its will. After all, mistakes costed lives. Soon, if destiny deigned lend a little help, its wrath would finally find its oulet.


	2. Chapter 1: At noon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I promised the updates for this are wildly far and in between :p. Anyway, enjoy and comment my lovelies <3.

 

   One of Sara’s butterflies perched on their index finger. The little messenger-an extension of the woman’s powers that looked far too much like a familiar many confused it for one, or at least those who didn’t know her well enough did- batted its deep violet wings from time to time, scattering glitter on their hand, a signal of its true nature. Hidden among the beautifully colored patterns lied the message, scribbled down in blue. It was hard to read, both intentionally and because the calligraphy of the writer had never been all that great. Good news, meet me Friday at 12 at Marlowe’s, it read. They frowned, a bit reticent to trust Sara’s overly positive nature. Even if her astounding amount of hope was a welcome change from the almost ubiquitous cynicism of war, it could get quite tiring. Maybe it was a matter of age. Granted, while you could hardly consider Sara to be a child, she might as well be when compared to them. And that didn’t only have to do with age difference. Their life experience played a big part there. A sigh rippled through their chest, sometimes they couldn’t decide whether having seen as many years as they had was a blessing or curse.

 

   They shook their head, waving off these idle thoughts. With a careful finger they touched one of the butterfly’s wings- you couldn’t be mindful enough when directly addressing such a personal thing as other’s magic-, a reply spreading in black on it. Knowing Sara, she’d probably groan upon getting the answer about how again they had made it difficult to decipher, what with the darkness of their curved writing being camouflaged by patches of rich violet. Of course they’d explain this as being extra careful of who could possibly intercept the message, but both would be certain this was just a showing of their humor. They’d always been kind of a trickster naturally.

 

   Then the butterfly flew off, eager to return to its master.

 

         ~         ~           ~          ~        ~         ~

 

   When Sara arrived to the café they had already ordered for both of them. It was 12:08 pm.

 

   “Did I keep you waiting?” she said taking a seat, face flushed and hair a bit disheveled. Her breathing was agitated as if she’d been running, starting to calm in their presence.

 

   “Not really; you know I always get everywhere early”, they said with a gentle smile.

 

   “Still, sorry. It’s just-I had all planned ahead, but stupid Caron came home unexpectedly and I couldn’t quite _leave_ ”, Sara rambled as her whole frame trembled slightly, big soft brown eyes watery and distressingly vulnerable in a way they rarely was allowed to see. They knew exactly what the witch had suffered through before heading to their meeting, and despite it being a common occurrence in those abominable times they couldn’t help feeling rage filling up their insides, swelling dangerously close to the surface. However, they quenched their wrath as usual, swallowing down vile. This was not the time to snap, they couldn’t selfishly destroy everyone’s chances at freedom.

 

   “Are you okay?” they asked handing her a paper napkin. It was a stupid question, a pathetic attempt at offering comfort from their part, but it was all they could come up with. Oh, why did they suck so much at giving support? There were moments when even pretty lies were welcome. On second thought though, such things would’ve sounded hollow spilling from their mouth.

 

   “Your concern is enough”, Sara thanked them like she’d read their mind, taking the napkin from their fingers and fidgeting with it.

 

   “No, it’s not”, they replied stubbornly.

 

   She smiled at them weakly.

 

   “You know, for someone so feared you’re a big softy”.

 

   “Shhh, it’s a secret”.

 

   The joke earned them a small chuckle from Sara, and they considered it a win.

 

   For a short while both parties remained in silence, sipping their respective beverages.

 

   “Honestly, there’s no expresso like Marlowe’s”, Sara said closing her eyes in delight, the tip of her tongue tracing her upper lip to savor the remnants of coffee foam there.

 

   “I agree, but you didn’t call me here to talk about that”, they prompted impatient. After all, the time available for their rendezvous was severely limited.

 

   “Guess I’ll cut to the chase then. I’m gonna be the opening act for you on the UK tour”, the woman announced triumphantly if a little reluctant to abandon her previous train of thought. To imply she was a fan of Marlowe’s “craft” was an understatement.

 

   “You weren’t exaggerating when you said you had good news”, they whistled. “How did this happen?” It was truly something to celebrate, a happy coincidence which enabled the plan to take down The Big Dick’s reign of terror once and for all to move a step further towards completion. It was a chance for Sara to speak and scheme with Britain’s General Supreme. A feat barred for them, whose every actions were extremely restricted regardless of where they went. Fate had been kinder to Sara, bestowing upon her a master more lax in the control of his charge, well, servant was the real word for it. Prisoners in an authoritarian regime, that’s what they  were.

 

   The point was, the witch could abuse the loopholes in her own surveillance, could answer Lorelai’s call.

 

   “Caron was feeling benevolent, I suppose”, Sara shrugged her shoulders, “Said it was time to meet the demands of the fans overseas”.

 

   “So basically you lucked in”.

 

   “Yup”, Sara said, smug smile in place. Well, at least someone was able to rip the benefits of that temperamental Lady’s will.

 

   In any case they couldn’t help but mirror their ally’s grin and offer a toast for this tiny, unexpected victory, mugs clinking as they came into contact. Three guys from a neighboring table side eyed them both like they were crazy.

 

   Then, Sara was gazing at them too, a complex expression on her mien.

 

   “I still can’t get used to it”, she whispered.

 

   “Get used to what?”

 

   She bit her lip, uncomfortable. Perhaps she hadn’t meant to be heard.

 

   “You-your current appearance”, Sara answered, fidgeting with her napkin again.

 

   “Imagine how I feel”, they jived aiming to lighten the mood, which might not have been the best choice since it made Sara more skittish instead.

 

   “God, I’m such an idiot”, she groaned, pissed at her own assumed insensitivity, “Of course it sucks for you and here I am running my stupid mouth as if you didn’t live with this everyday…”

 

   For a second they entertained the idea of lightly pressing their fingers on her arm to calm Sara down, yet discarded it soon as it had formed. Said action would have required a level of closeness they didn’t have with her. Or had any hope to achieve. No one had ever stayed, why would she? Once war and enslavement didn’t force her to rely on them anymore, the bright young witch would leave. Frankly, it was kind of a miracle she had a positive enough opinion about them.

 

  “It’s fine, Sara; I don’t mind. My skin isn’t that thin”, they stopped her tirade of self-effacement, voice steady. “Or are you saying I look bad?” They decided to tease her, grinning slyly. Surely she’d relax now.

 

   “No, no; never. You look super handsome-it’s just…different”, Sara answered, not losing her nervousness yet. It stung a bit. No matter how open minded and surprisingly welcoming Sara could be, she still was wary of them, even if unconsciously. She couldn’t be blamed, naturally. All that they were; hell, their very moniker screamed threat-danger-caution-get the fuck away as fast as you can.

 

   “I haven’t seen your real form many times, true”, Sara admitted, calmer, blush coloring her cheeks, “But it _is_ a change”.

 

   “Yes, it is”, they said while nodding and letting out a tired sigh. In an ideal situation they wouldn’t have minded assuming a male shape. Being coerced to do this, however, was simply, simply…abhorrent. Another reminder of how powerless they was at the moment. They hated such a feeling and everything it came with it; in no small part because they knew it so very well despite what most thought. Then again, most hadn’t lived as long they had.

 

   “I have news too”, they changed the topic.

 

   “Yeah?” Sara raised one eyebrow, intrigued.

 

   “Mhm”. They took a sip of their coffee before continuing.

 

   “Apparently The Dick in Chief and three of his generals want to flaunt their top slaves to the world even more, and they are using a new NBC show to do it”.

 

   “What kind of show is it?”

 

   “It’s a singing competition. ‘The Voice’, I think it’ll be called”.

 

   “Of course”, Sara tapped her forehead with the palm of her hand, “There are so many ‘singers’ serving the generals”.

 

   “You are one too”, they pointed out, perhaps a tad bluntly.

 

   “Ugh, don’t remind me. So, who are the other three victims?” Sara inquired, wincing.

 

   “The musicians known in this realm as Christina Aguilera, Cee lo Green and Blake Shelton”.

 

   “Wow, never thought I’d witness an ensemble of you, ‘Scarlett Talons’, ‘Pollux’ and ‘The Historian’”.

 

   “Me neither”, they shrugged, “We’ll see how long it lasts”.

 

   “Yeah”.

 

   “Anyway, since it’s a vanity project I was thinking maybe the douches’ll get careless and I’ll be able to bring the other three to our side”.

 

   “For all we know they might already be. Especially ‘The Historian’; I’ve talked to him before, seemed like the sort of man to take action”.

 

   They huffed at this comment. Typical Sara, always willing to believe in people she barely knew. Or rather that she could accurately pin down people she met only once. Admittedly, this disposition had helped stablish the trust between the two, although one day it’d certainly lead her astray.

 

   “I don’t want to doubt your judgement, Sara. But I’m not expecting this affair to be easy”.

 

   “Well, it doesn’t _have_ to be hard either”, Sara remarked, ever the optimist.

 

   A bitter voice in their head wanted to tell the witch that this was war and both were slaves; every little step would be difficult. How incredibly patronizing, they chided themselves; when Sara had barely managed to-temporarily-scape the clutches of her abuser to attend their encounter.

 

   In the end they merely shook their head and peeked at their wristwatch to check the time. Forty minutes had passed since the start of their conversation, if they didn’t go now they’d be screwed.

 

   They rose hastily and deposited their share of the bill on the table.

 

   “I have to run”, they explained, slipping a pair of shades on.

 

   “Okay, I’ll stay here a while more. See you in a couple months”, Sara bid them goodbye. “We’ll keep in contact”.

 

   “Sure”, they said beginning to walk away.

 

   “Good luck, ‘Adam’”, were the last words they heard whispered from her as they turned to the door.

 

          ~          ~            ~             ~            ~           ~

 

   Using a car as a means of transportation sure seemed inefficient when navigating L.A.’s chaotic jam-packed streets. All the more if one had a scheduled meeting with NBC executives to which they’d probably arrive fifteen minutes late at minimum. They could only pray no one got mad at them for this. Or else their master might come to find out they had had a rendezvous with Sara and everything would go down from there.

 

   They sighed, stopping at a traffic light. Why had they allowed themself such carelessness? It was 12:59 on their watch now.

 

   On their right a girl passed by the sidewalk, eyes fixed on a book. Wherever she was heading, she was in a hurry too, but they were able to catch part of the title of the volume before she went out of view: “Harry Potter and…” A small wry grin pulled their lips up. Joanne Kathleen Rowling was a cheeky woman. Presenting her story of “the boy who lived” as fantasy instead of the blatant condemnation of the almost one hundred years old magical war between humans and the  very person of the most infamous magical human tyrant to ever exist that it really was, had been a ballsy move. In other words, to the humans of this realm the books were just fiction, but for magical humans they were protest literature.

 

   The light turned green and they continued on their way, knowing their destination was a few blocks ahead. However, judging by the elevated number of vehicles in their path, it’d be at least fifteen minutes to get where they meant to.

 

   Using a car as means of transportation sure seemed inefficient, and degrading and plainly stupid when their magic could teleport them basically anywhere yet couldn’t be used thanks to the powerful wards placed on them. To calm themselves they took a long deep breath of air. It’d be a long day.

 

       ~         ~          ~          ~         ~           ~

 

   After their manager had properly chewed them out-“Adam, you’re twenty minutes late! What the hell were you doing?! This’s a great opportunity, and here you are, acting like a spoiled brat blablablablablablah”-the both of them headed to the designated conference room.

 

   Inside, the other three singers and their respective managers plus the NBC execs waited. Adam-even with thirty years past the name remained foreign and wrong on their skin-gave a tiny bow of their head, an apologetic smile on their face, and took a seat at one of the empty chairs on the left side of the large conference table; their manager following suit once he had made the routine flimsy excuses for their tardiness.

 

   One irritated woman holding an impressive stack of paper in her hands-likely a producer- barked a few words of acknowledgement at them and began-finally, she stressed-reading the documents.

 

   As the woman read, Adam addressed the gazes of the singers, which they felt like pinpricks on their face.

 

   Only “Cee lo” glanced away, embarrassed of being caught staring but not fearful, they noted pleasantly. They could already feel something akin to sympathy for the man.

 

   “Christina” by contrast, was looking at them with open wariness, icy blue orbs barely blinking and focused; an expression that appeared mismatched with her current features because it belonged to her original shape, to slanted pupils and bird like eyelids. Hers was a most common reaction, actually one of the two defaults when confronting them. She’d be a tough customer for sure.

 

   And then there were warm cerulean eyes, brimming with curiosity. It was puzzling. No one had ever regarded them like “Blake” did. No othering, no contempt, no apprehension, just plain interest. Something inside their stomach stirred; an obscure omen that made their caution alarms twitch. This interest in their person, while not born out of ill intention, might not turn to be so harmless at the end of the day.

 

   For the entire length of the meeting Blake kept on watching them, gaze so intense they felt tempted to avert their eyes. Adam held on through sheer will force; no matter what happened they couldn’t show any sign of weakness. The world preyed on the feeble; they had had to learn this painful lesson early on. All in all, they was feeling quite irked by the man’s constant staring. Not enough to engage him though-which seemed to be Blake’s intent-, just enough to throw him off with a quick tap of their magic. Except they couldn’t do that since the fucking wards forbid it. They huffed, annoyed, shifting on their chair and waiting for the uncomfortable moment to end.

 

            ~          ~            ~        ~          ~           ~

 

   Soon as the reunion finished Blake asked them for a few minutes alone. They wanted to refuse but their manager agreed on their behalf, thrilled by the prospect of building good work relationships. Thus they went, rolling their eyes at Blake when he opened the door of the conference room to let them through.

 

   “There’s an internal patio down the hallway”, Blake suggested with a slightly sheepish smile.

 

   Adam nodded and followed along, schooling their face into impassiveness.

 

   The internal patio was small and square; sand colored tiles covered the floor, four ashtrays stood in every corner, and three beds of plants served as the minimalistic decoration, a medium sized palm tree sticking out from the rest.

 

   “What do you want?” Adam demanded once Blake had closed the glass door behind both of them.

 

   “To apologize for my rudeness back there”, the guy answered, accent much softer than it had been at the meeting; yet his voice lacked something still. It was because he too was chained, powerless-all servants were-. Magic had a habit of twisting itself into people’s speech, it carried moods and preferences, it was your soul trying to expand and reveal its shades. Many chose to control such impulses, only letting go when deemed appropriate. Adam had never been of that mind, perhaps because their education had been unorthodox at best by human magicians’ standards.

 

   “Really?” they frowned.

 

   “Yes. My momma taught me better than staring a hole through someone’s skull”.

 

   The acknowledgement-and the sprinkle of humor-did sit well with them.

 

   “I’ll give it to you. I’ve never gotten that reaction before on first sight”.

 

   “Promise I’m not normally that creepy”, Blake joked, eyes brightening upon getting a grin out of them.

 

   “Good to know, then”, they said beginning to leave. As far as they was concerned, their business here were over.

 

   “Wait!” Blake exclaimed, arm moving unconsciously as if to detain them.

 

   They turned and looked the guy dead in the eye.

 

   “What?”

 

   “Err-I think, since we’re gonna be coworkers we should introduce ourselves properly”, Blake said, sounding somehow both steady and awkward, “Even though it’s pretty similar, Blake’s not my name”.

 

   “Lucky you; most of us ended up with, whatever honestly”, Adam commented, wondered where this was going. “So, do I call you ‘The Historian’ like everyone else?”

 

   Blake shook his head. “No”.

 

   “I’m Baen”, he said as he extended his hand for them to shake.

 

   Their eyes locked with the man’s again, that particular flicker of distrust only those who’ve known not of loyalty can have crossed over their gaze. Then they took the offered hand and replied in turn:

 

   “Dr. Death”.

 

   ~       ~         ~         ~       ~        ~

 

   Snow had been falling for days on end.

 

   They remembered so, so, so very well.

 

   A day burned on their memory; as ironic as that seemed.

 

   Snow had been falling.

 

   But their mother had died.

 

    There had been a weird type of not quite surprise and helplessness as pain-a vast incomprehensible pain- began to hollow out their five years old self.

 

   It’d all started there.

 

   For a winter elemental, their mother had always been pathetically, laughably weak; prone to illness and barely capable to protect herself. She was a woman afraid of her own shadow, broken by the many unspeakable horrors in her past. Nearing the last years of her meagre life she had been sold to a human wizard, a mediocre abusive man who hoped to benefit from her talents. Clearly he had been scammed, for she had none to give but her hands and her womb at that point. So she conceived for him a couple children, born on winter and buried the next. Two boys. She had enough time to love her babies, however, enough to lower them into the dark ground with a kiss on both eyelids. Her husband didn’t think the same. He didn’t care for his lost sons, just that his progeny, his heirs had hitherto been spoiled. Of course their mother was to blame and, as usual, she was fittingly punished. Twin scars were added to the large collection she carried.

 

   Some years later, on a bright wintry morning when the sun casted its pale rays over the countryside, their mother welcomed them into existence. Though labor was excruciating for her that time, she made it; even if she never quite recovered since. All memories they had of her painted her with dry, translucent, sickly skin marred with cuts and bruises; dull hair; calloused hands; a hoarse voice she seldom used. And yes there were bags like wells under her eyes, yet her eyes were comfort, warmth, home. Her eyes communicated what she couldn’t say aloud, told them stories and sang lullabies. Her eyes soothed them after their father had raised his arms, always heavy. Their father didn’t like them. He had been waiting for a boy, not for, _what_ they were. He had been waiting for a human not a halfling winter sprite.

 

   Next to their mother they learnt submissiveness, the art of letting things be taken from you.

 

   She couldn’t teach them much, sadly. Shortly before their sixth winter, she closed her beautiful amber eyes for good.

 

   Tears fell down their cheeks, becoming shattered crystals upon reaching the ground.

 

   “[ _Mama!]”_ , they called, lifting one of her stiff bony fingers.

 

   The silence only death can conjure was the sole reply.

 

   Death. They were so small, but they had seen it. They had believed they understood.

 

   They hadn’t until know.

 

   “[ _Mama! Mama!]_ ”, they wailed, almost mechanically, a bottomless pit beginning its progressive growth inside their chest.

 

   It was a long while until their father came to see what they was crying about.

 

   Glassy pain stricken eyes met beady eyes injected in alcohol.

 

   The man didn’t spare a glance for his deceased wife; instead he growled and lunged towards them, thunderous hands closing on their throat.

 

   “[ _Shut your gob, you dirty little beast!_ ]”.

 

   Soon the pressure became overwhelming, had them struggling to break free from the vicious grip, thrashing and emitting choked whines; their face covered in tears, snot and saliva.

 

   Their father appeared decided to put a premature end to their life.

 

   It hurt. Everything hurt. Even their soul felt as if it was tearing.

 

   Why?

 

   Why was this happening?

 

   They had always behaved, always been quiet and obedient. They’d withstood their father’s rage every time it had come. Perhaps someday they would prove themselves as more than a nuisance, they had thought. Maybe in the future their father would like them.

 

   No. Strangling was all they got for their troubles. The wretched man had never wanted them.

 

   Darkness started to creep in from the edges of their vision. They couldn’t feel any strength in their body or anything much but their poor heart beating away like a butterfly within a jar. And the hands around their neck making their lungs catch fire.

 

   Suddenly, they was enveloped by a cool sensation. The next moment their father’s hands broke into sparkling smithereens as a long hurt cry was wrenched from the man’s chest. Relief washed over them at being able to breathe again, although their abused throat protested with each intake of air. Meanwhile their aggressor recoiled, falling flat on his ass and looking horrified. He raised his arms only to find them cut off at the wrists, which were bitten by frost.

 

   “[ _What have you done to me?!_ ]”, he yelled.

 

   Using the little force they had managed to regain, they sat up gingerly.

 

   “[ _UNDO THIS IMMEDIATELY, YOU FOUL BEAST!_ ]”. The miserable wizard’s expression had contorted with mad fury; was that foam in the corner of his mouth?

 

   They didn’t wait to learn whether their appreciation had been correct, bolting out of the house and running on the white soft snow that had been piling over a fortnight.

 

   Even when night fell they never stopped running, the “farewell” words from their father ringing in their head. The man hadn’t chased them but screamed his sentence like a cursed omen:

 

   “[ _Your misgivings won’t go unpunished, rotten monster! On my name I swear, that as long as you walk the earth doom shall follow your wake and no creature shall desire your company! In account of your heinous crimes fate shall forsake you until your bones are laid to rest!_ ]”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that appears in brackects is the common language used in the other realm. I resorted to this because I'm not Tolkien and I don't have enough-time to research and put together something semi coherent- knowledge about linguistics to create my own fictional language. I'll expand upon this point in future chapters, everything in its due time people.


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